Vash Takes a Shower
by nekonekoneko
Summary: As the title says. Reviews welcome. shoots once for you


He turns the shower tap, and the red geraniums fall.

He feels as though an awful weight is pressing down on his ribcage with every second step. Yet, he continues running through the service tunnels. He is well aware of the cost of stopping. _For a single, terrible moment, the steamer will fly. After that, I might survive. But I'll be alone again._

But then, his steps slow into an arrhythmic stagger…then stop. The crimson of arterial blood blooms on his red coat. _It's no use. You saw what Neon did. How easily and happily he murdered the steamer driver. Everyone's probably been massacred by now. Everyone's already dead._

Even half-blind from the shifting shadows in his vision, he can imagine the engine room: a mazed and twisted steam-shadowed hell with the acrid stench of stale coolant and recycled oil. He isn't even sure whether the child is still inside. His last thought, before being overtaken by unconsciousness, is of the child within that red pit, green-faced and making raspy, choking noises from horrifically swollen lungs.

He soaps the lengths of his limbs, feeling the dead pinkness of his scar tissue with bruised-purple-threatening fingertips. He notes that his chest plate feels especially heavy today.

"So/ On the first December evening–"

There is an odd catch in his voice on the last four notes. He stops. _A Plant can only help so many butterflies. _

Silence again, except for the sound of scrubbing and an occasional shifting of feet. Steam rises.

There was a brief moment where he spoke to her.

"Don't fret, little sister. I'll make sure that everything will be alright."

And then, the maddened scream of Hopperd the Gauntlet as it crashes madly into her tank.

Shattering and a scream cut off midway. Glass shards cutting through the air. Warm fluid spattering wetly. It smells like tears.

A confusion of sirens and screams and maddened gears as the flying ship begins a final journey.

The east ceiling of the core collapses. There is a cloudless sky above, which casts her into dreadful relief; her hair is a pale stream scattered around her, and she reminds him of a character in one of Wolfwood's stories. What was it? Ah, yes. A messenger of the Almighty One. But fallen.

It is afternoon, and her eyes stare unblinkingly into the double suns.

He finishes with his towel and struggles into the nearest pair of trousers. It has been a hot day, but he's just out of the shower, water still drying over his scars. He shivers.

His coat is on the line that Meryl rigged up in the yard, however. And the suitcase containing his and Wolfwood's shirts is buried between the broken clockwork that was once a flying ship. Today is not a good day for clothes.

He reaches to his left shoulder, flicks two switches, gingerly rotates three screws and squeezes tightly above the muscle. Titanium cylinders screech against each other. His left arm lands deadly on the thin mattress. There is that empty sense of imbalance again; the sense that his right side is too heavy for his left.

He examines the crevices for rust.

By the time he finishes, the suns are low. _The moon will be up soon. Red and bleeding as a fresh-plucked flower._ He concentrates on the tiny imperfections of his arm again. There's nothing else he feels capable of doing anyway.

The pool of yellow light and the laughter of children attract his attention to the main room of the shack even before he enters the doorway.

Inside, it is pleasantly warm. Mismatched chairs circle a table heavy with plates of sandwiches, half a ham, baked potatoes, thomas patties, ketchup bottles, spaghetti and a large, deep bowl of red jelly. The cups are as mismatched as the chairs. A black cat wanders around a small vase of desert flowers on the counter, the source of much fascinated 'aaaawww's from the children.

Wolfwood leans by the window, shooting the breeze with cigarette in hand. A lanky arm is draped laconically over-and-around the giant cross. Milly is seated on the floor nearby, in the centre of a circle of children. From the way she mimes the drawing of a pistol, she appears have been telling them a story about a hero.

There is even a tray piled high with –_oh!_ – doughnuts taking pride of place on the table's centre. He blinks. _I didn't know we had that much left_. Meryl, glowering at the wall clock, is atypically wearing an apron. She is pointedly not looking at Wolfwood; Wolfwood is pointedly not looking at her.

Two of the children run towards him, tugging and pulling at his loose trousers.

"Just _what _do you think you're doing? Do you have any idea how long we've waited for you? How hard _I've_ – oh!" Meryl stops in mid-rant and looks away. She suddenly becomes very engrossed in attending to the toddlers playing around her.

"She's right, y'know," drawls Wolfwood "You're our guest-of-honour for tonight. I insisted."

"What for?" It comes out as part-sob, part-snarl. Embarrassment, then, as they look at each other in silence. Wolfwood's grin fixes on his face.

Then, Wolfwood's grin widens – somehow, such a thing is possible. "Oh, for saving our collective butts back on that flying ship. And in Arcadia, in Augusta, on the steamtrain…all over the desert, really. 'Specially for saving Bete's life this morning."

"Set an alarm next time 'round." Wolfwood looks directly into his eyes. "When we declare you the VIP at a party, you'd better come, needle-noggin."

As he lets the children push him towards his friends, Vash smiles.


End file.
